


The Recipe for Disaster

by a tattered rose (atr)



Category: John Bellairs - Johnny Dixon series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 22:03:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atr/pseuds/a%20tattered%20rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Johnny and a friend travel to Duston Heights for the holidays.  Unknowingly, they carry with them a recipe for disaster.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Recipe for Disaster

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lysimache](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lysimache/gifts).



December 19, 1958 saw a chill winter in Boston. Massive clumps of snowflakes were blustered by a persevering wind into cracks in the rundown townhouse on Commonwealth Avenue. The young man who sat within noticed neither this frenzy, nor took account of the radio drama whispering from the partially dismantled set near his elbow. A plate of Ritz crackers and cream cheese rested untouched on a small table nearby, along with a short stack of unopened mail.

 

It was unlike him to be insensible to these, his favorite things, even though his housemates would have found nothing particularly amiss at coming upon him in a state of reverie. But the source of his preoccupation – the chance meeting outside his front door – had followed him throughout his familiar rituals and now overcame him.

 

This young man is Johnny Dixon. Grown, somewhat, from his prepubescent days, he remained of short stature, pale of feature, and reliant on a pair of spectacles to engage fairly with the world.

 

It was his glasses, in matter of fact, which in conjunction with the weather had been the source of his singular encounter. He was long accustomed to the walk across Harvard Bridge, then the left down the grassy avenue, and hardly needed the power of sight until the thick air forced him to stop and clean his glasses so as to safely navigate the snow piles in front of his stoop. His mittens were, however, thick, and the difficulty of locating a corner of dry cloth amongst his bundling with which to wipe them caused him to lose hold altogether and deposit them in the flurries. It was while peering around nearsightedly in an attempt to retrieve them that he was come upon.

 

The figure (for he was unable to discern features) proved to be a woman. English, by the sound, when she inquired, without particular interest, if he had misplaced something.

 

“Only my glasses. They can't have fallen far.”

 

A moment later the woman stooped, and held something out to him. “Here you are. Though I dare say they shan't do you much good, damp as they now are.”

 

She made a movement, as if to go on, but some force kept her still as Johnny pulled a bit of scarf from under his jacket, rubbing at the glass until they were fairly dry.

 

Then he finally looked into her face. His intended thanks stopped in his throat. The woman before him was lovely – beautiful even, in a manner he felt alone in the power to recognize. The city was full enough of pretty young ladies, both forward thinking and backward, highly cultured and possessing a freedom born in country living or too many books. None, however, had ever struck his eye so powerfully, with feature and stance that seemed born of epic poem rather than the lowly but more commonplace origin of human birth.

 

The snow might stick to him, batter him with the humor of a nature otherwise intruded upon by solid brick and cement. But it seemed to exalt in the presence of this woman, dancing circles around her long woolen overcoat as if it wished for the strength to lift her back into the air, from which vantage she might laugh alongside at all that men had built. The snow stung at his eyes and pricked his lips, tickled his nose to run more constantly than it was worth his effort to wipe away. But her dark, heavy-lidded eyes were only brightened in contrast with the white flakes, seemingly designed to exist amongst such onslaught. Her cheeks and nose were pink, but as a gift of nature to elevate her complexion rather than an objection to the cold. Her lips were damp, it is true, but kissed with dew from heavenly origin to make them sparkle.

 

This he noticed in a moment. Half-remembered quotations whispered in his mind. They had the cadence of Latin, but the words eluded him.

 

She had been studying him as he studied her, and must have found something worthy of interest in his look or manner. At any rate, after dismissing his thanks with a wave of her hand she roused herself enough to inquire if he “had far to go yet this evening?”

 

“No, I just live here.” And he pointed in a general way at an extruding window, curtained in lavender. “Are you going far?”

 

She laughed at that, low and melodic.

 

“Across the river. But the weather is nothing to me, I who have seen so much worse.” This last was in a lower tone, as if to herself rather than intended for his ear.

 

With that she inclined her head and walked on, her form quickly swallowed by the swirling gusts and his own spectacles, which fogged from the release of a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

 

\- . -

 

When his sudden, personal fog cleared she was quite gone, and he lost no time crossing the slick roadway and fumbling into the house. He shed his thick outerwear to drip in the entryway, and descended the narrow old servants steps to fix himself his accustomed snack in the deserted kitchen. A quick stop back by the front door to collect his mail from his box, and he settled himself in his favorite armchair in the front room, clicking on the radio to a low murmur out of habit rather than true interest in what would be coming on.

 

There he sat, searching for the lines he had almost recognized before, until roused by violent activity in his peripheral vision.

 

“Damn but it's cold out there! Thought the wind would pick me up, car and all, and chuck us into the Charles before we even got half past hell! Whatcha want to live over here for anyway?”

 

It was a familiar complaint from a familiar friend, and Johnny took no notice. It was true that the MIT dorms, of which Thomas Farley was a resident (for this was the boy's name) were much more convenient to campus. But Johnny liked the distance between study and sleep that living in Boston afforded. He liked navigating home by the purple-lit top of the Prudential Building, which was only two blocks away. And he liked living in the fraternity. Even if he was still the odd 'humanities' one, he found it easier to overcome his shyness with the term 'brotherhood' creating instant intimacy.

 

“I thought you were going to the pub with Matt and Evan?”

 

“Nah.” Thomas had settled himself in another chair, and having picked up Johnny's forgotten plate was proceeding to stack the crackers into towers. “They'll just be trying to forget about finals and hunting up girls. Not that any will be out in this.” With that he shoved one whole tower into his mouth. The rest of his words came out thick in consequence. “'Sides, gotta plan 'or trip, dun we?”

 

Johnny sighed, and pulled a map from his satchel. The route to his grandparents' home was straightforward enough, though as it was Thomas' car and the weather was troublesome, it was only fair to let him fret.

 

“I've drawn it out- see for yourself.”

 

As Thomas' parents lived in California, he had chosen to spend the holidays with Johnny in order to easily be back for the crew team's January training. He would drive the pair out, spend two weeks with Johnny's and his grandparents, his good friend Professor Childermass (of whom Johnny spoke often and who Thomas not-so-secretly believed was made up) and Johnny's father, who was abandoning his own lonely home to save the elderly couple from having to travel. Thomas would leave for Boston soon after the New Year. And Johnny – who was on the crew team as well, but not needed as he was a coxswain – would stay on and catch a ride back to the city with the professor, who had professed a desire to look up an old friend who taught at Harvard.

 

“Looks all right by me.” Thomas had been munching as he studied the highlighted route, and was now wiping stray crumbs off the plate with his long finger. “News says this should die down tonight, we should be able to leave straight off, whenever we feel like getting up.”

With a pointed look at the clean plate, Johnny inquired, with some humor, if his friend would like something to eat.

 

“Nah, ate after practice. I'll go down and get you something though - you can read your mail while I'm gone.”

 

“Mail?”

 

Thomas indicated the short stack, uncovered once he had removed the plate. “Looks like your old friend's handwriting. Don't see what he could have to say, you'll be seeing him tomorrow anyway, but might be important.”

 

Once he'd left the room Johnny opened the letter. He and the professor both preferred the comparative formality of letters to the telephone. At least, it felt more like their old times than the rather gruff tones which the older man always used on the telephone. But as Johnny's last letter had contained nothing urgent, other than an estimated time for his arrival, he wondered why the professor was writing. Despite Thomas' joking, he was really a little concerned. What if something had happened? What if there was an emergency, and the professor had been called away? He tried to sooth himself with the explanation that if it was an emergency, the professor would have called.

 

“Johnny,” it began, in familiar-if-hasty scrawl. “Bishop to Queen's Rook. Take that! But you must be wondering why I'm writing – that is if the confounded Postal Service lives up to its motto and manages to get this to you before you and your friend have left. I inquired about the matter to the postman and he said yes but as the man continually mixes my house with old Mrs. Cleaver down the way I wouldn't trust that brute as far as I could throw him and given he looks to be eating his missus out of a larder I doubt I'd manage to get him much further than my stoop.”

 

By his choice of words and lack of punctuation Johnny guessed that the altercation with the postman, along with another incorrect delivery, had transpired just before the professor had sat to write.

 

“I need you to pick up something from Jacques Magnus at Harvard – that friend of mine I told you about. I can't find my directory with his office number, but never mind, I'll call you before you've left to tell you where he is. It's a bit out of your way but apparently can't wait and he won't trust it to post. Signifying a distrust for which I really can't blame him.”

 

Johnny wondered if the professor had tried to call. The other boys were pretty good about taking messages, when the phones worked. But one of the juniors, Fred Fenning, had scrapped his telephony 'improvements' for a complete overhaul of their system. The question now was less one of whether the phones would be down while he worked on them, and more whether he could have them up and running in time for scheduled parental calls. To be safe, Johnny resolved to call the professor himself later, and read on.

 

“But the real reason I'm writing, and this I daren't say over the phone in case that blasted man is spying on me, is that Coote's here, with some peculiar notion of my needing to diet. He's banned all sweets from the premises, as if I were an infant and hadn't spent more than half a decade tying my own shoes, driving myself about, and shaving. I need you to pick up as much chocolate and sugar – that is, everything we'll need to make our favorite cakes, and smuggle it into your grandparents' house with your luggage. As much as you can carry and don't skimp. These are dark days, Johnny Dixon, dark days. Coote even has your grandmother promising to ration her delicious fudge. At the holidays, nI say!”

 

After this was the mess that was the professor's signature. Johnny was about to fold the letter back up when he noticed an arrow pointing to an extra line writ large on the back.

  
“PS – Don't, by any means, stop at the local grocery. That madman has just called them up and sworn them to withhold sweets as well!”

 

This, he was sure, had inspired the old man to take a turn in his closet.

 

It was to Johnny's chuckles that Thomas returned, two ladened plates balanced on one lean arm and two bottles of beer swinging from his fingers.

 

“What's happened? Finally gone mad, has he?”

 

“You might say so. By the way, we've got to stop by the store and Harvard before we leave. The professor's asked us to pick up a few things for him. I'll call him in a while to find out exactly where.”

 

Thomas grumbled, in the familiar tones of not really minding. He shut the curtains tight before they both applied themselves to the food. Friends biding time on the eve of a journey, cocooned away from any thought of class or storm, or the mysteries hidden in either.

 

\- . -

 

As the drove out of the city, radio tuned to the news, Johnny absently munched cookies and thought about what might be in the box Professor Magnus had handed him. It wasn't large – eight inches square and three inches deep. Thomas had wanted to open it right away but Johnny hadn't let him. They hadn't been specifically told  _ not _ to open the box, but after all, it wasn't theirs.

 

It wasn't manners alone that led him to place the box into his bag. A part of him would always be a bit nervous around mysterious objects. He had come across too many strange and horrible artifacts, found himself enmeshed in too many terrifying adventures to ever just assume something was benign. Of course, there was no real reason to suppose there was anything out of the ordinary in the box. Despite the old man's protests that it wasn't valuable, it could very well be a box full of old coins or jewelry. It hadn't rattled when Thomas shook it, but it was certainly heavy enough to contain a good amount of gold.

 

Yet even now, after a trip around the grocery, the hairs were standing up on the back of his neck. His friend had laughed at him when he mentioned it earlier, but for just a second after Professor Magnus had ushered them out of his office, Johnny could have sworn an expression of fear, followed by one of relief, had crossed the old man's jowly features.

 

Maybe the professor would know what was inside.

 

At that moment Thomas finished navigating onto I-90, sighed audibly and relaxed back into his seat. “And here we are on the open road, Johnny-Boy. Pass me a few of those cookies, why don't ya?”

 

Johnny handed him a short stack, and watched as he chewed with a fretful expression and twiddled the radio dial. The journey wasn't long but overnight the snow had turned to ice in patches, and many of the other drivers didn't have chains on their tires like Thomas' car did. This made for slow, careful going.

 

So Johnny started talking about his latest project. He was helping his favorite literature professor re-translate bits of Ovid's “Metamorphoses” for a book he was writing.

 

Thomas was an engineering major. He had taken one classical literature course (that was where the two had first met) because the school required him to take several humanities subjects in order to graduate. But he really had no interest in the subject. He only liked to hear Johnny talk, especially when half his attention was required by some tedious and annoying task. Like training.

 

Because Johnny was a coxswain, he didn't need to be especially fit. Coach didn't care much what he did in the gymnasium, so long as his weight stayed steady. Instead of working on the machines he'd sit by Thomas as the taller boy used the erg, and ramble on about his latest essay or translation or the difficulty of declining irregular verbs as Thomas' muscles bulged and he dripped sweat onto the floor.

 

For his part, Johnny didn't mind that Thomas, though often professing that he was listening, rarely remembered anything Johnny had explained to him. He found it soothing to talk aloud, and watching someone exercise somehow made it easier to think. It was even better than being on the water. There, he needed to keep his mind on the boat, else he'd miss time and make the captain, Pete Jackman, crabby at him. Even so, he found the time spent was not wasted – usually he'd get into the boat with a sticky problem, and step out with an idea for an answer. (He'd once mentioned this phenomenon to the professor, who said he was letting his unconscious mind work on the problem by distracting his conscious mind. When Thomas heard that he said that all the troubles of the world would be solved if you got everyone too drunk to see straight, and there was no sense in not beginning immediately.)

 

Today he found himself talking about Medea, a powerful sorceress who was governed by passion and killed Jason's new bride and sons after he betrayed her. She figured in book VII of XV, and Johnny's professor thought this story was really much more important to the work than anyone had ever thought. Especially since Ovid had also written an entire play about Medea. Of which, unfortunately, only a couple fragments survived.

 

Not wanting to misremember, Johnny unbuckled his seat belt and leaned over the seat to find his satchel, which contained both a Latin copy of the book and his own notebook. He finally found it wedged under the driver's seat. As he tried to drag it out his hand brushed against the carved wooden box and he jumped as a static shock bit his finger.

 

“Hey watch out. You'll have me run us off the road. Get back on your duff and navigate, isn't this our exit coming up?”

 

Johnny sat back down to navigate through Duston Heights. The streets weren't as well plowed here as they were in the city, but they did alright until the turn onto Fillmore Street.

 

“What's that old bat doing?” Thomas exclaimed.

 

A battered old station wagon was careening towards them, fishtailing madly across the whole road. Thomas tried to turn out of the way but they got hung up on a pile of snow, tires spinning. The other car tried to swerve away but instead swung at them, smashing into the back passenger side door. The two cars spun in the intersection. The station wagon fared worse, and slid sideways into a street sign with another echoing racket.

 

The boys sat frozen, staring at each other with round eyes and breathing loudly. The radio antenna had been knocked loose and the air hummed with the crackle of static. Down the street, several doors opened and curious, worried faces peered at them.

 

Thomas was the first to recover. He pulled at his seat belt with one hand, the door handle with the other. “Damn, that was a bad knock. You alright over there?”

 

Johnny was slower to move, still feeling the impact. He was okay, and said as much. Figures were running towards them now, slipping here and there on the sidewalk. At the head was Professor Childermass, his bushy white hair flapping in the wind.

 

Before anyone could get to them the other car over its engine and sped away, tires squealing as it progressed with only slightly more control.

 

“Are you alright?” The professor had gotten close enough to call out.

 

“Fine, sir. Just a little dinged up.” Thomas had immediately started crossing over to check on the other driver. But once they drove off he turned to investigate the damage to his back door.

 

“We're okay, professor.”

 

Professor Childermass halted in surprise when Johnny stepped from the vehicle. He had evidently run from the house immediately at hearing the crash – though he wore both boots and a coat the former were unlaced and the latter hung open. His head was uncovered and though a scarf hung over one shoulder it was in danger of slipping off, like it had accidentally brought along from an earlier expedition.

 

“Johnny! My word, what the devil – What happened?”

 

Johnny shrugged. It suddenly felt very important to let him know that they had his things. But before he could get more than a few words out his dad, with Grampa Dixon holding onto his arm, came within earshot and he had to leave off.

 

After the accident had been explained, introductions made and hellos said, the five of them examined the damage. The consensus was that it was superficial, though the door would need to be banged out. They then got the car turned around, and parked in a clear space a little down from the Dixon's front door.

 

The whole event then had to be explained again, more introductions made and hellos said to Johnny's grandmother and Professor Coote, who had stayed behind when the others had gone outside. By the time the excitement had died down, and the boys, with the help of Johnny's father, had moved their bags up into Johnny's old room, he had forgotten entirely about the mysterious box.

 

The seven spent a jolly evening telling stories and toasting the season. Enjoying the fire and a holiday program on the television set. Everyone went to bed late, pleasantly full and a little tipsy.

 

\- . -

 

The next few days passed in similar fashion. At least once a day Thomas would lean back in his chair and groan over how much work Coach was going to have him do to make up for all the wonderful food he had consumed on his break. Then the boys, often with Mr. Dixon, would walk around the town, admiring all the holiday decorations.

 

Professor Coote, it turned out, had rowed in college. This meant he took an interest in Thomas, and the two of them often wandered off to discuss training. Mostly this comprised of Thomas doing push ups with his legs propped on bits of furniture while the older man urged him on and wished he was younger. Johnny's father would sometimes join them and dream of his days in the armed services.

 

This left Johnny and Professor Childermass long hours alone, free to play endless games of chess and discuss all the minutia of life which doesn't translate onto paper.

 

On one of these occasions, the day before Christmas, Johnny took the opportunity to inquire about the sweets situation. He had noticed that his grandmother had baked as much as she always did around the holidays, and everyone enjoyed her thick lemony shortbread and rich sticky fudge.

 

“Oh, yes.” The professor blushed and glanced at the door, though which a voice could be heard counting. “I might have overreacted just a little bit. More than a little bit, to be honest, if I wrote anything like I remember writing. But-” and here he leaned in conspiratorially, “I have an idea for those supplies. The Auto Body shop should be open the day after tomorrow – go in about noon with Thomas and I'll meet you there.”

 

The professor went on to capture Johnny's queen, his last knight, and finally wedged his king into a corner. The final tally for the day stood at 2-2. Thomas and Johnny said goodbye, and went back across the street for a quick shower and to change into good clothes for mass. While they dressed, Johnny told Thomas about the professor's plan.

 

Curiosity sped the boys through Christmas day. Supper was certainly to be anticipated, and remembered fondly, but both boys had found a declining interest in the day since discovering there was no Santa Claus. Each tried to get Professor Childermass alone to inquire after more details, but he kept Professor Coote close by all throughout their visit, making this impossible.

 

Finally it was time to meet the professor. They swung into the lot behind Dave's Auto Body Shop to find the professor's car already waiting. Very soon he himself came out of the building, talking with a much younger man with oil-spotted coveralls and a handlebar mustache. This was Dave.

 

The matter of repairing the car had already been discussed and arranged, and after a short discussion with Thomas Dave went back inside. The three men shifted the baking ingredients into the other vehicle.

 

“Hey Johnny-Boy. Found your bag. It got all wedged up under my seat.” Thomas was bent over in the back, pulling at something so hard that when it released, he fell over. “Here you go!” Triumphant, he presented Johnny the bag.

 

“Thanks. D'ya know, I hadn't missed it yet?”

 

“Would have been a joke if I went all the way back to Boston with it stuck there.”

 

They all jumped into the professor's car, pestering him good-naturedly about their mysterious destination in between rousing choruses of Christmas carols.

 

Thomas was the first to notice the signage. “College? But we've just left college. What're we going back to one for?”

 

The professor chuckled. “You'll see.” And he drove around the back way, using driveways Johnny had never seen before. There had been few cars in the front lots, but theirs was the only vehicle back here. He finally pulled to a stop near a loading dock. Instructing the boys to grab the bags and follow him, he rummaged in a pocket until he found a large ring of keys, and muttered to himself as he looked for the one that fit the lock of a small metal door. “How difficult is it to label these darn things? You'd think this was their security system, confuse the personal until they give up and- Aha, here we are!” The door clicked open.

 

They were led through the dimly lit basement, until they turned into a large industrial kitchen. The professor hit the light switch.

 

“No one should disturb us. I thought we could bake up everything you've brought, and hide it here until my New Year's party. The kitchen staff won't be in again until term begins.”

 

Pulling out his well-used cookbook, the professor went to work searching for his favorite recipes, while the boys explored the kitchen. They turned on ovens to preheat, and found milk and eggs. They were poking through the shelves of bulk-sized spices, which were arranged by type rather than alphabetically, when the professor interrupted them to ask for a pencil. “I thought I'd brought one-”

 

Johnny crossed back to the door where he'd left his satchel. He always had a few pens and pencils stored there. When he opened the bag, however, the first thing he saw was the box Professor Magnus had given him. One corner was now crushed, and most of the lid was a pile of kindling. More wood splintered away at his touch, revealing a glint of metal.

 

He felt sick to his stomach. The box had been important, left in his care, and not only had he entirely forgotten it, but he had let it get damaged.

 

The professor was asking again for a pencil, or even a bit of charcoal with which to re-figure amounts. Feeling numb, Johnny pulled out the small case where he kept his writing instruments. “Here professor. I-” But when he opened it, all that was inside was a small handful of candy canes. Was this a joke? It was something Thomas might do, replacing his tools with sweets. But if he mentioned the switch the other two would be sure to find out about the damage...

 

He put the case back, refastened his bag, and slowly stood up. Thomas and the professor were huddled over a counter, making notes with a bit of chewed pencil and already wearing two of the professor's absurd aprons.

 

A third of these was jovially held out to him when he came near, but he couldn't get back into the spirit. His mind kept wandering back to the broken box, and what Professor Magnus would say when he got it back in that condition.

 

He was chopping a block of dark chocolate when a hand came down on his shoulder and Thomas' voice whispered low in his ear.

 

“Hey Johnny-Boy. Whatsa matter? Want to step out and talk?”

 

At the concern in his friend's voice Johnny felt a lump in his throat. He wanted to tell him, but Thomas was of the straight-forward sort, an engineer through and through and he would be sure to immediately take it out to have a look. So Johnny just shook his head and swallowed the lump. When Thomas saw his friend wasn't going to speak, he moved away.

 

By the end of the day they had many good cakes and cookies stored away in the huge refrigerators. And all three were feeling a little sick from the licks and tastes necessarily in all good baking.

 

The professor had also noticed Johnny's moodiness. Guessing that the boy would be more willing to talk when they were alone, he waited until the next day. The elder Dixons were visiting friends, and Thomas had gone with Professor Coote (at his request) to check the progress on his car.

 

Halfway through a game of chess, the professor set the board aside. “It is time, Johnny, to 'spill your guts' as they say. What's wrong? You've been miserable since yesterday. Is it the baking? Charley won't really mind, it's just one of those fits us old people have now and again.”

 

Johnny shook his head. He still felt awful. He knew the professor, for all his brashness, was a very kind man, and would leave him alone if he really didn't want to talk.

 

But Johnny remembered other things through the years that he had also kept secret. The little blue Egyptian figurine he had found in the church basement, the miniature skull from the Childermass clock, which had turned out to be the real skull of a vengeful magician... Keeping quiet before only ever made things worse, and had often caused one or the other of them to almost die.

 

“It's the box.” He blushed furiously, and kept his eyes lowered to the chess pieces.

 

“Eh? What box?” The professor was surprised. He'd expected something about a girl, or rather-

 

Dejected, Johnny stood up and led the way to his room. The professor followed, looking around in confusion at the mess two boys make, while Johnny crawled into his closet and retrieved his satchel. Upturning it onto the bed, he then sat on the corner of his mattress with his head in his hands.

 

“It's what Professor Magnus told me to bring to you. It's all broken now.”

 

The professor, for his part, had spared only a passing thought to his old friend's initial request, and had assumed that he'd changed his mind once nothing came of it. Magnus was prone to attacks of mystery, and it would have been in character for him to put everyone to great trouble on a whim.

 

“Oh, this? Must've been damaged in the car crash you boys were in” he said distractedly, picking up the rest of the box to see what Magnus had thought so important. Then he looked up and saw that Johnny was really upset. “It's no matter, really. The wood is so dry I'm surprised it didn't fall apart years ago. It's his own fault for taking such poor care of his possessions.”

 

Johnny began to feel a little bit better. There was still a knot of worry in his stomach, but he had at least done what he was asked to do – delivered the thing to the professor. And since the professor didn't seem concerned at the state it was in, maybe he would be willing to explain the situation when they took it back to the city.

 

“What is that old fool playing at?”

 

The professor had shifted the rest of the broken wood to reveal a small flute, separated into three pieces which rested in special beds lined with dusty blue velvet.

 

He screwed the pieces together, checked the valves to see if they still worked, and tried to blow a few notes. Nothing came out but hisses of air. He tried again, without similar results.

 

“Fiddle and blast. Here, you try.”

 

Johnny took the instrument and blew across the opening like he and Fergie had liked to do with Coke bottles. A thin, hollow note echoed in the small room.

 

“Hmph. Well, at least it still works. Probably meant to have been owned by someone or somesuch or possibly made by someone famous only without any proof. Jackie is always being ripped off by vagrants with a good story.”

 

He took the flute back and tried again to produce a note. Already getting cranky, he failed again and dismantled it with violent twists..

 

For his part, Johnny wished they hadn't put the flute together. What if it really was a famous and important artifact, and now it had their spit all over it? But he did feel a great deal better. Relief tingled over his body. All that worry for nothing!

 

\- . -

 

New Year's Eve was upon them. Most of the street went to the professor's party, along with several good friends including Father Higgins, Fergie (who was home for the holidays), and Fergie's mother, along with her new husband. They all ate a lot of treats, though under Professor Coote's critical eye Professor Childermass always served himself last, and cut quite small pieces.

 

Thomas, being much more outgoing than Johnny, talked readily with everyone. Johnny was happy to see him get along so well, as if he already belonged to the circle of friends and acquaintances.

 

Near midnight Johnny's father started the countdown, and at zero Johnny found himself wrapped in long arms, a big wet kiss planted on his cheek.

 

“Happy New Year, Johnny-Boy!” He turned in surprise to see Thomas, who immediately went red and busied himself over at the punch table.

 

Soon after that, the party broke up. The older folk went home to their beds, the younger went out for a last stroll around the block.

 

\- . -

 

Thomas left after breakfast the next day. Despite his claims that he'd put on at least ten pounds he still ate a lot. He hugged everyone goodbye, except Johnny, who's hand he shook gravely. “'Til we meet again good sir! I'll give you a ring later, see how you're getting on.”

 

Then they all went outside to see him off. Dave had done well with the car, and it looked as good as new.

 

The holidays over, life quickly settled into routine. Johnny spent the mornings working on his translation. In the afternoons he talked with his father, and they would often take long walks before dinner. Johnny's father had gone back to being a pilot in the military during the war, right after Johnny's mother died when he was twelve. This was why he had lived with his grandparents. Initially Johnny had been sad to have to move so far from home, but after all, he never would have met the professor if he had stayed in New York.

 

He had stayed in Massachusetts even after his father returned home. They all pretended it was to keep him in his school, as he was doing so well. But Johnny knew it was really because his father felt badly about leaving him behind, and didn't know how to make a family again with just the two of them.

 

In the evenings, Johnny played chess with the professor, and tried a few puffs of his cigarettes. He didn't like the way they burned his throat and made him cough, or the sour taste they left in his mouth. The professor laughed at the faces he made, and gave him soda pop to wash away the after taste.

 

The professor asked after Thomas a few times. But Johnny said he hadn't heard from him, and looked so uncomfortable at the questions that he left off.

 

Nothing remarkable happened at all, until the morning of January 10 th . 

 

Johnny woke up late to air free of the delicious smells of bacon frying and coffee brewing. Worried his grandmother might be ill he got dressed and went downstairs.

 

The house was empty. The lights were off, the coffee pot still washed from the day before. There was no note explaining that his grandparents had gone out early in the morning.

 

Growing more concerned, he went upstairs to their bedroom door and knocked. Once, twice, three times. No response. They were both naturally early risers. Now he was really getting frightened, and pushed open the door. Two still forms could be seen in the bed.

 

He called out again, quietly, then more loudly. When there was no movement he swung the door open fully, jumped back and sniffed at the air in case there had been a gas leak. All he smelled was gingerbread.

 

Terrified of finding his grandparents dead, he forced himself to enter their bedroom and pull the corner of the blanket down. When he did, he was so startled that he stumbled back, tripping over an old armchair and landing in a heap on the floor.

 

It wasn't a human face that he had uncovered. Instead it was the grossly distorted features of a gingerbread man!

 

He thought it might just have been a dream. A sleepwalking vision. He had experienced those before. If so, the fall had been painful enough to wake him. He stood and took another peek. No- a huge glob of icing stared back at him. The shapes in the bed, he now saw, were much too flat to be real people.

 

Retreating backwards until he found the door, Johnny eased it closed behind him, turned and bolted.

 

Usually he felt much braver than he had when he was younger. The world had shrunk as he grew up, and especially as he traveled, often with the professor. But he felt twelve years old again as he threw himself down the stairs, shoved his feet into boots and fled into the street. There he stood, breathing hard, watching the upstairs window for signs of movement and listening for anything that might sound like huge gingerbread feet stomping after him down the staircase.

 

All was quiet.

 

A new terrifying thought struck him. What if the professor had also been changed? What if he, Johnny, were the only one in the world still made of flesh and blood?

 

He imagined his father saluting a flag painted in colored sugar. Pews full of flat heads kneeling at mass. A piece of dough falling out of a boat to become a soggy mess in the Charles River.

 

Trembling, he crossed the street and pushed the professor's bell. Without a car he couldn't get too far, but the police station was only a mile away. Not that he really believed they would know what to do. Cookies frosted in blue rose in his mind's eye.

 

Finally he heard banging and grumbling from inside the house. He jumped when the door swung open, but it was only the familiar disheveled head of the professor peering blearily out at him.

 

“...hardly a decent hour- Oh, Johnny. Did we have- What's happened?”

 

Johnny had started to cry. The professor pulled him inside and gave him a mug of coffee. He had a hard time understanding the fractured words that came out between sobs, but understood that something terrible had happened to Johnny's grandparents.

 

When he saw there was nothing that could be done immediately to comfort the young man, he excused himself to get dressed and wake Charley. They'd have to go over to the Dixon's and see if there was anything to be done.

 

There was no answer when he knocked on the door of the spare bedroom. Muttering about old men and late nights, he went in to rouse his old friend by force.

 

What he saw made his hair stand on end.

 

In a daze, he marched stiffly back downstairs. Johnny looked up and started crying anew. The professor looked as if he'd seen a ghost. Something more horrible than a ghost: they'd both already seen several over the years, and most of them had been evil. But he'd never seen the professor so pale, or his eyes so wide. Even his large pitted nose, always a cheery red, was deathly white.

 

“By any chance-” The old man's voice came out a broken croak. He cleared his throat and tried again. “By any chance, Johnny, have your grandparents turned into... _confectionery?_”

 

The word, hearing it aloud, was so absurd that Johnny's sobs turned into hysterical laughter. He thought of a cannibalism joke, but that only reminded him of the reality of what he'd seen and he sobered. Part of him had still been holding onto the hope that this was some sort of elaborate joke. But even if his grandparents had been talked into playing along, the professor would never be able to play his part this well.

 

“What do we do?”

 

Some of the color had returned to the professor's face. “I think-” he said with a grim expression “that we'd better pay a visit to my old friend Jacques Magnus.”

 

\- . -

 

Less than an hour later the two were barreling towards Boston in the professor's car. Johnny hadn't been able to bring himself to go back upstairs to pack a bag, so the professor had gone for him. Packing enough for overnight, he also brought Johnny's satchel just in case any of the wooden splinters still clinging to the inside were important. They sat in the back seat, next to his own overnight bag, and a small leather doctor's bag into which he had repacked the instrument.

 

Before they left they had gone up and down the street banging on doors. No one had answered except Mrs. Meyers, who hadn't been at the professor's party. Short of breaking into houses, they decided this meant other people had been afflicted as well. They had also agreed that it was probably the flute at the root of the problem. There was nothing else new or possibly magic about.

 

While they drove, the professor alternately ranted at Professor Magnus for not giving warnings about dangerous objects he dropped into other people's laps, and at himself for not showing Charley the flute directly. His friend was an expert on all things magic, or as near an expert as existed on the subject, and probably would have told them directly to be careful. Only he had treated it as a joke and not even thought to inquire.

 

Johnny let the professor shout, ready to grab the wheel if his gesturing proved dangerously detrimental to his already-erratic driving. It was comforting and familiar, and made it harder to hear the voices in his own head. They were asking him much the same questions: why didn't he show the box to the professor earlier? Why didn't he ask Magnus what was inside? If he had only asked... And the two thoughts neither of them could voice: what if it was their fault, for trying to play the flute? And even worse: what if it couldn't be undone?

 

A couple hours later they careened into Cambridge. The streets were already lined with cars so the professor stopped in the middle of the road and left his emergency lights flashing.

 

“C'mon, this is Jackie's house. He'd better be in or-” The threat was left unfinished. Johnny and the professor rang the bell over and over, then pounded on the door. There was no answer, but Johnny caught movement at an upper window. He pointed it out to the professor, who started looking for a spare key. There was nothing under the mat, or in the potted plants flanking the front door. But they found a hollow rock hidden in the border of the small front garden. Triumphant, the professor threw open the door.

 

With a roar of outrage he charged up the stairs, cursing the Magnus family. Johnny followed behind. Near the top the professor stopped short. A woman had come out of one of the rooms and was looking down at them. “He's not here” she said, sounding unsurprised to have her home invaded in such a manner.

 

The two men slowly ascended to the landing. Johnny recognized the woman – she was the one who had found his glasses weeks before. He was struck again by her features. Free of bulky garb she was still imposing, solid curves commanding the hall as if even these dignified surroundings felt humbled by her presence and elevated themselves to match her.

 

Beyond her, Johnny could see into the room she had just come out of. Blankets lay over something large and flat in the middle of the floor.

 

She caught the direction of his stare. “That's your friend. There's nothing I could do for him.”

 

“Ma'am,” the professor sounded shocked and horrified, as well as a little in awe. “Is this your doing?”

 

“Of course not” she said irritably. “I only wanted to speak to him. But when someone let me into his room he was already” she waved her hand to indicate his transformed state. “I didn't think it would do to leave him there, where anyone might come upon him. So I wrapped him up and had some boys help me get him back here. They didn't see.”

 

The woman was so calm, that the professor didn't know how to respond. Finally he flew back into a rage.

 

“Then what” he shouted “exactly is going on, and where the deuce is Magnus?”

 

“He fled, of course. He's really a very cowardly man, you know. I thought he might have left the things behind, I even followed you after you left his office.” She turned her heavy eyes to Johnny. “But I had trouble using his vehicle and there were always too many people around.”

 

The professor had been thinking while she spoke. He decided that she was too calm by half, but her indifference meant that she was only another innocent bystander, rather than at fault. He set down the case he had been holding and reached inside, then held out the pieces of the flute.

 

“Are you, in fact, referring to this?”

 

She glanced down, a spark of recognition firing her eyes. “Yes. But it won't do you much good without the sheet music.”

 

The mention of another artifact was news to both Johnny and the professor. It made sense - usually there was an incantation that had to be said to make

 

The professor, in the strangled voice he used when he couldn't get to his closet, inquired if they might search the study. “And by the way, I am Professor Roderick Childermass. This young man is Johnny Dixon. And the young man you have in there in such an unfortunate state is Thomas Farley. Might we know who you are? I wasn't aware Jacques had any family locally.”

 

The woman shrugged as she led them into the study. “You may call me Evie. That's what he always called me.”

 

The room looked like a tornado had struck it. Books and papers were everywhere, and the desk drawers all hung open. “I looked everywhere already, but I think he must have taken it with him.”

 

The professor and Johnny looked around, disappointed. The place had been pretty thoroughly searched already, and it seemed unlikely they would find anything new.

 

Suddenly the professor snapped his fingers. “His office at the university. He had a safe installed there, I'll bet he'd have hidden the music there with the flute – that's why he had me send Johnny there to get it.”

 

The woman shrugged again, one shoulder gracefully lifting and falling. “I checked there as well, but I never found a safe.”

 

“Well cavalry, off we go.”

 

They piled into the car, which had received a ticket. In short order, they were double parked again, this time outside the university building housing Professor Magnus' office. The door was locked, but Evie produced a key from her pocket and opened it.

 

The professor immediately went for a framed painting on the wall, pulling it down to reveal a small safe concealed in the wall. It was locked.

 

\- . -

 

An hour later the three drove slowly back to the house in silence. No amount of pounding or banging would open the safe, there was no sign of the combination, and no locksmith would break in for them. Especially not if they tried to explain why they needed inside so badly.

 

The professor mentioned some family he thought Jacques had living in England. If they couldn't track down the man himself, and there was really very little hope of that, a relation could possibly be persuaded to give them permission to break into the safe.

 

He picked up the phone to start making calls.

 

Evie, taking pity on the men, began to make tea.

 

Johnny, dejected, dragged himself up the stairs to sit watching the pathetic bundle of blankets he knew to be Thomas. And he had been upset that he hadn't called! Johnny regretted very much letting his friend spend the holidays with him. He had offered, after Thomas had mentioned how annoying it would be to fly all the way across the country and back again. And had been happy when the other boy agreed to his plan. It seemed like it would be fun – and it was – to spend so much time together.

 

And now he might never see Thomas again.

 

His reverie was interrupted by a commotion downstairs. There was a large crash, and he could hear the professor yelling. “You blundering fool!” More crashes and banging, as if china and pots were being thrown around the room.

 

Johnny raced downstairs to make sure everyone was alright. There, cowering in a corner of the kitchen, was Professor Magnus himself.

 

Johnny felt himself go weak, and clutched at the door jam. He was back! But what if the old man wouldn't undo the spell? What if he couldn't, and that was why he'd left? What if he had destroyed the music?

 

The professor's satisfying rage was cut short when he saw Johnny in the doorway, looking ready to faint.

 

Embarrassed, he stopped throwing things and took the other man's arm, dragging him into the next room. There they talked quietly for a long while. Meanwhile, Evie guided Johnny around the broken shards and sat him in a chair with a mug of tea. Then she sat opposite, and calmly flipped through a thick book that contained a lot of symbols.

 

At length the two men could be heard stomping up the stairs. Muted notes from the flute floated downstairs. Johnny barely heard them, and sat staring motionless into his mug.

 

Minutes later, someone crashed down the stairs and a familiar, confused voice was exclaiming “Where am I? Hello. Johnny! What's going on? Where are we?”

 

It was Thomas' voice. Johnny turned around, and there was his friend, just as round and real as he had last seen him.

 

To his horror, Johnny began to cry. He had never in his life felt so relieved as at that moment. He buried his face his arms, and tried to stop sobbing. But he only cried harder when he felt a large hand on his back, and a low voice in his ear saying “It's alright Johnny-Boy, no harm done.”

 

\- . -

 

A few hours later the five were in Duston Heights. Along the way they had stopped by Professor Magnus' office, and he had brought something out in a narrow tube. They were all in the professor's car because he didn't trust the other man not to run away again. And anyway, the old station wagon was in too sorry a state to make the journey.

 

They stopped in the middle of Fillmore Street, and the professor poked at Jacques until he got out. The professor then handed him Johnny's bag, and ran into his house. After the door closed Professor Magnus unrolled a sheaf of papers from the tube and started to play a tune, very loudly.

 

Thomas looked confused, and Johnny wondered if the music would work through all the doors. How close did it need to be?

 

Shortly, up and down the block, front doors opened and curious faces blinked out of windows.

 

Professor Coote opened the door to stare at them, and inside the professor let out a very heartfelt sigh.

 

Johnny's father came out the Dixon's front door, and Johnny looked up to see his grandmother looking down at him. It was undone!

 

The boys were left in charge of rounding everyone up who had been affected (though like Thomas, they all just thought they had overslept.) The professors went to rescue and retrieve everyone who had been at the party, but didn't live on the same block.

 

\- . -

 

Later that night, everyone was assembled in the professor's living room. Chairs had been collected from all over the house to seat everyone, and there were still some people leaning on tables, and a few sitting cross-legged on the rug.

 

Professor Childermass stood up near the fireplace, and cleared his throat loudly for attention. “Friends, and, er, neighbors,” he began, peering around. “Now that you've all got ears again, it is time the whole story came out. First, let me introduce the characters you may or may not know. Myself, who I believe am familiar to you all. Johnny Dixon, his great friend Thomas Farley,” as he recited their names, he pointed to each in turn. “Professor Jacques Magnus, and a new face, I present to you Miss Eustacia Vye.” At this, the mysterious woman stood, and quickly sat back down.

 

The professor went on to explain that at the heart of the matter was a flute, but as the flute was currently unavailable, the masses should regard a certain umbrella as an able stand in. “In times past, this flute was known by many names. Most famously, it was that same instrument that led rats, and then children, from villages by one known as the 'Pied Piper.' How it came to have these powers is lost to time, but have them it does.

 

“Under normal conditions, a certain melody must be played for there to be an effect. But the magic placed on this object was so powerful, and has gathered for so long, that the enchantment has started to leech out into the things around it.

 

“A few days before Christmas, Professor Magnus asked Johnny to convey this object to me for safekeeping. Little suspecting what would transpire, I admit I also asked Johnny to bring me something from Boston – a great deal of baking ingredients, which you all partook of New Year's night. Also unknowing, Johnny placed the box containing this flute, with great care, in his satchel. In this bag was also a Latin edition of Ovid's 'Metamophoses.' It is the unlikely combination of these three things, the book, the flute, and the ingredients, which have caused our problems, and under the most extraordinary circumstance.

 

“The flute, it is true, is meant to be played. But the basic enchantment, so far as I have been able to ascertain, with the assistance of Professor Coote,” at this, Professor Magnus grimaced at his exclusion. “is one that actualizes a spell, whether played or written. 'Metamorphoses,' for any unaware, is full of stories of transformation. Especially those of a person into something else, like a tree or a rock. This is the word that was instilled into the baking ingredients, 'transformation.'

 

“Even then, I doubt anyone would have seen any ill effects. Except that I and the boys proceeded to rewrite certain recipes, and then assemble the ingredients- in effect writing and then concocting our own magic potion. But the real trouble, I fear, was what happened next. You all may or may not recall that New Year's, this year, fell on a new moon. Add to that the power inherent at midnights in general, and the extra importance of being at the liminal moment between two years, and the transformative magic took effect. It still took a full nine days to work.”

 

It was clear that several people in the room thought this was all nonsense. But those who had come into contact with the supernatural before were thinking hard.

 

Fergie stood up, indignant. “But what did you want to change us into cookies for?”

 

Professor Magnus cringed at the accusation. He opened his mouth to speak, but Professor Childermass beat him to it.

 

“He didn't. That was a complete accident. No one could have predicted it, and I dare say if he had known what might happen, even Jacques wouldn't have allowed it to transpire.” Here the professor shot a look at his old friend. “And I'll thank you to notice, Charley, that you became rather flat yourself. So don't go pretending you didn't enjoy those treats along with the rest of us.”

 

Professor Coote looked properly abashed.

 

“But-” Thomas piped up, to Johnny's surprise. “How come you and Johnny didn't turn, along with the rest of us?”

 

The professor smiled. “Wonderful question. I wonder if Johnny knows the answer?”

 

He didn't, but he thought hard, and an idea occurred to him. “Is it because we both touched the flute? We brought it out and put it together, and tried to play it. Before we knew what it was, of course.”

 

“Exactly right. The owner of the flute, of course, couldn't be affected by the spell. And by picking it up and blowing into it, we became owners, and that protected us. No matter how much we'd eaten.” The professor said this last with some dignity.

 

Johnny thought of something else. “My pencils! When I opened my pencil case, all that was in it were candy canes. I thought they'd been swapped out as a joke but...” He glanced over at Thomas, and trailed off.

 

The professor looked at him in surprise. He'd never heard about candy canes before. “Yes, they must have been transformed as well. I doubt we'd have understood that at the time, however.

 

“And now you are all wondering how you stopped being gingerbread men and women. Or at least those of you who believe me are wondering, and the rest will have to hear it anyway. For that, for once, we can thank Jacques for having some measure of backbone. Johnny and I had almost run out of options, you see, when he came back with the music, as well as his musical skill, and put things right.”

 

Now Professor Magnus stepped forward. “I didn't know, you see. What it would do. The title of the music said 'Follow me.' Only there was never anything that said how to make it stop. I thought the best course would be to keep the flute far from the music – that's when I decided to send the flute to Roderick. And I took the music away myself. Then it occurred to me that playing the music backwards might undo the spell. So I came back, and we tried it out and it worked!” He glared around the room, in case anyone was thinking of yelling at him again.

 

“But what were you _doing?_” This in the booming voice of Father Higgins.

 

“Yeah.” Johnny agreed. “You were scared of something before any of this happened. That's why you wanted me to take the flute to Professor Childermass in the first place.”

Professor Magnus refused to answer.

 

Everyone but the professors were surprised when the mysterious woman stood up. “He was trying to put me back.”

As one, the crowd gave her their attention. Even those who scoffed. There was something in her voice, the way she stood as if nothing could touch her, that commanded attention.

 

“Some of you, I see, didn't recognize my name. I am Eustacia Vye, and last summer Jacques played me out of my book. One moment I was words on a page, and the next I was following a tune and found myself here, in this world.”

 

“'Return of the Native,' by Thomas Hardy.” Jacques Magnus added, in an irritated tone. “I had acquired a proof copy not long before.

 

Eustacia continued. “He spent all fall trying to put me back. But he couldn't. And, I admit, the longer I was free the more I didn't  _want_ to go back. I wasn't given much of a life, you know.”

 

Here the professor stepped in. “Evie, as she is now called – E. Vye, Evie, you see, tried to keep the flute and music safe. I dare say her aim was so noble as to mean to destroy them. She followed Johnny and Thomas all the way from Cambridge when she saw Jacques give them something, but was frightened off when the neighborhood descended on the scene after her little accident. And Jacques ran off with the music while she was here. Once she realized the two items were separate, her only option was to go home and wait for one or the other of us to turn up.

 

“And now, ma'am, if you would do the honors?”

 

The professor held up a book of matches. Evie brought a small roll of old parchment from under her shawl, and let the professor light the corner. She then threw the burning bundle into the fireplace, and everyone watched as it turned to ash.

 

“There's the music done for. The flute itself is already in the shop, being melted down as we speak. Leaving only one more untied end. Jacques, I believe you have something to give the lady?”

 

Reluctantly, Jacques pulled a book from his bag. He handed it to Evie, who hugged it to her bosom as for the first time, a smile graced her features.

 

“The proof of Hardy's book, back in its rightful owners arms. I don't think she could be put back in any case, but at least you, Jacques, can stop dangling it over her head as threat.”

 

This satisfied most people, but Johnny had one more question.

 

“But professor, if Evie – Miss Vye – if she's been here since summer, what's she been doing?”

 

The professor let out a chuckle. “Fantastic question, young Mr. Dixon. Miss Vye, as it turns out, has finally found a worthy subject for her considerable and famous passion.” He started laughing again, but looked surprise when only confusion met his eye. “Don't you see? She's enrolled at Harvard as 'Miss Evie Magnus,' and has been studying chemistry. Doing quite well, as it turns out.”

 

The crowd was dumbfounded.

 

 


End file.
